#scavenger writes

[ask-the-pioneer]

Marbles approaches the tribe's trading square, where countless items are spread neatly on fabric mats. Food, weapons, vessels, bags... strings of pearls shimmering in the sun. Bingo! Perhaps she could persuade the scavengers to trade some of them.

Two individuals come out from the nearby shelter entrance. Sage - the head merchant and chronicler, and Spike - the tribe chieftain, greet their new slugcat guest in person.

"SALUTATIONS. YOU HAVE PEARLS?" Marbles signs with her hands. The two scavs look at her, unsure of the scug's intentions.

"Um… I WANT BUY PEARLS. YOU GIVE ME PEARLS, I GIVE YOU…" she pauses, and looks around. Spotting a spear nearby, she hops up to it and grabs it, then ties a piece of cloth around one of its ends and puts it in her maw. The scavengers tense up, their frills stand on ends. Why would this new guest pick up the weapon if not to use it? The guards nearby do not seem to like it either - they clutch their own spears in anticipation, watching the situation closely.

"I GIVE YOU EXPLODING SPEARS. YOU WANT?" Marbles says as she hands them a nicely crafted spear with a deep orange tint on one end. The cloth smells vaguely of sulphur.

"YOU MAKE EXPLOSIVES? WITH MOUTH? HOW!?" The scavs' eyes widen.

"MY SKILL. USEFUL! I MAKE SPEARS FOR YOU, YOU GIVE ME PEARLS. GOOD?"

Spike and Sage look at each other, barely believing what they just saw.

"…YOU CAN MAKE MORE?" The chieftain glances at Marbles. She nods her head in response.

Sage pulls their friend aside for a moment. There is urgency in their voice. "The tribute, Spike. Imagine if we sent two dozen of those spears to Metropolis. We'd earn favour and protection for at least a season, if not longer!"

The chieftain nods. "Yes… this opportunity is too convenient to pass up. Bring the pearls and calculate the exchange rate, but test those spears first. If they are usable, bring her whatever she needs to make more of them. I would still caution everyone to be careful, though."

"YES, GOOD. WE WILL GIVE PEARLS. SETTLE DOWN PLEASE, OTHERS WILL BRING YOU MATERIALS..."

[naffeclipse]

Forget-me-not

Reader x Sun and Moon

Commission Info

Thank you for @robinette-green for the lovely request! I adored writing this and making the boys so sweet to the reader! The reader is a clockwork animatronic who's trapped in an abandoned circus, and Sun and Moon step foot onto the forgotten ground and find someone in need of their help.

———

You watch another golden glow creep into oblivion upon the abandoned carnival and its sad, lonely inhabitants. The sun withdraws soundlessly like a stranger passing by. The Freak Show sign slumps, depressed. The once golden and galloping horses in the carousel have rusted into cruel, dark hues and no longer stamp or throw their wild manes back while children ride their once beautiful, gleaming saddles. The big tent—it hasn’t been big in years. It lies in sore tatters, wet from yesterday’s rainstorm with poles sticking up high and stringing along broken bulbs of once bright, yellow lights illuminating the darkness, promising fun to the humans who stepped onto the fairgrounds. 

You hate the darkness. You hate it more than being bolted down in place and left to host a game of ring toss no one has played in years. Your right arm is still extended in invitation over the green and brown bottles. The carnival owner couldn’t even allow you both of your arms, pinning your stance into place with bolts and leaving only your left hand to occasionally wave and flutter to catch the attendee’s eyes. 

After all the trouble he went to steal you away from your creator, you thought he would at least have taken you with him when the bright, colorful lights and happy, bouncing music came to a halt.

The soft words of your creator ring distantly, like a voice calling out through fog. You are—were his most beautiful creation. He whispered the words to you while he painted your lips red and bid you to take a look in the mirror.

You agreed. You were so, so pretty.

Perhaps it’s for the best that you don’t know what you look like anymore. You don’t want to look upon how rusted your clockwork inner workings have become. Your once pale and milky porcelain skin might be gray and slushy as the dirt along the pathways guests took, and that is not something you wish to know. There’s no doubt your red lips and silky red hair have been forsaken to the elements. You fear you are ruined. 

You are now worthy of abandonment.

In the darkness, you truly are forgotten. A hitch within your clockwork chassis catches and grinds before continuing, but the scraping pain remains.

Your attention is drawn back to the front entrance, a good distance away from you. Half crumbled with support beats cutting over the access in an ‘X’ shape, like a warning to not trespass this decrepit lot, shadows slink over the splintered and rotted wood. Long, lanky umbras move with a silence that is so strange and careful.

You squint your eyes. The urge to tilt your head slightly to peer better at the disturbance is cut short by the bolt in your neck, refusing to let your head tilt save from a slight side to side to give an enthralling smile.

You shouldn’t get too excited. It’s likely mere animals. A pair of raccoons or a stray dog who has lost its owner. Once, you watched a doe deer step softly through the wretched ruins, big wet eyes turning to you for one moment before the blurt of your automated voice lines jumped from your throat and sent the creature bounding away.

Nothing is yours here, not even the moment of daydreaming of you prancing out of this forsaken carnival like a doe deer. Free.

The shadows mingle into the dusky darkness. The blue-gray twilight reveals figures, and your mechanical heart chokes.

Two personages creep along the path winding from the entranceway. The same path leading directly towards the ring toss game; towards you. One dons a thick hood and cape, dark blue like midnight. The other’s head is sharper and unconcealed. A crown of jutting points frame the figure’s disk-like face, and a thick deep brown shawl gathers at his throat and falls down his chest and arms. 

As they pass into a silvery slant of budding starlight, metal glints on the crowned one’s face and the other hooded person’s hands spray out while scanning the darkness for threats, silver digits curling and uncurling.

Two automatons. Like you. But not.

A whirl in your servos thrums a loud, exhausted sound, and you stiffen—as much as you can while bolted in place. 

What could two automatons want with an abandoned circus? You were never familiar with the world outside of your creator’s home before you were smuggled out against your will by the circus owner, but at the circus, you learned much. 

You learned of scavengers and automatons gaining their rights. You always wonder if that’s partly the reason you were left here to rot too—are you too human now to own but robotic enough to be neglected? 

They could spy on you in the darkness and decide to strip you for parts. Your clockwork clanks heavily within you like a clapper within a bell, beating against your brass heart. Can they hear it? You have to stop. Be quiet. 

The two automatons prowl forward. Their optics and audio processors strain not unlike hounds searching for a fox. What do they prey upon? The crowned one gestures towards the carousel, the ride well within distance to your ring toss game, and you must clench your jaw tightly to keep from whimpering. The hooded one dips his head but keeps moving forward. Your gears crank in jarring motions, jolting and jerking while you hope they take the parts they desire from the circus and leave.

The hooded one continues down the path. Your chassis tightens, and your fingers tremble in place while you keep your eyes averted, held above the automaton’s head but keeping him in the unfocused corners of your optics.

Please. Please, don’t. Your bottom lip quivers.

“Step right up and toss a ring to win a prize!” The words blurt from your mouth and startle all the ruins and everyone within.

Two pairs of glowing eyes fall upon you. Straightening and alerted, the shrouded automatons stare into your fluttering eyelids as you attempt to beg them to leave you alone. A spark burns in your throat. Your voice lines refuse to give.

One stops and reaches silver and blue digits up and lowers the hood slowly. A face gazes at you, scarlet eyes glowing in the darkness with a face like a crescent moon. A blue nightcap, slightly frayed and worn, and decorated in yellow stars, covers his circular faceplate. 

The other steps closer with a curious tilt of the sharp points framing the automation’s head, and enters the last of the blue-gray darkness before night completely takes over. A yellow face, grinning with round cheeks, observes you. Pale optics beam. 

“Hello, friend,” he speaks, voice bouncing low but with intrigue. “Why don’t you come on out? It’s alright, don’t be afraid.”

Your optics dart side to side. Helplessness settles over you, pinned in place by rusty, dark shame. 

“Do you need help?” The one with the pale yellow sun rays steps closer, his eyes narrowing in the slightest. “Are you stuck?”

The moon-face automaton slips closer. The glow of his gaze sweeps over the game you’re bolted in front of, and he fixates on your right arm stiffly held out in invitation as your fingers curl and clench. You glance down at him, wondering if your eyes plead in the way your mouth cannot.

Biting your bottom lip does not prevent another voice line from bursting forth, and inwardly, you crumple.

“Try your hand! One ring around the neck of a bottle wins a prize!” 

“Not stuck,” the lunar automaton turns to his accomplice. His cloak shifts like shadows under the arc of the moon. “Trapped.”

“Oh, you poor thing! Here, let us help.” The sunny one steps forward, his hands raised as if to pacify a wild creature. “And, if I may be so bold, your voice box sounds like it’s not your own.”

You wish to nod but only succeed in cranking your head halfway to the right, as if in a gesture towards your hapless situation. 

You wonder if they can see the ugly, rusty bolts pinning your body in place, holding you shackled to the ring toss game. They must, for the lunar face man slips closer, stooping down by your feet behind the barrier as he inspects the heavy metal securing you in place. The solar gentleman energetically leaps over the barrier and stops right beside you, hand on his hips. His shawl drapes darkly around him but his grin is bright like a new dawn.

You don’t dare hope. The niceness will fall away like a curtain to reveal the snarling, roaring beast behind it. They will strip you for parts or worse, mock you, revel in your helplessness, and slip back through the night, leaving you with only the daydream of a rescue.

Facing the sunny one, you hold your metaphorical breath as he pauses. He stares deeply into your optics. You stare back into the foggy gray irises he possesses, like a cool, misty fog gathering in the night only to be touched by the sun’s first rays of light. 

“Your eyes are beautiful—the same color as forget-me-nots.” The sunny automaton smiles.

Your servos slow to a calm hum.

“Come on,” he says and carefully reaches for your neck to begin unscrewing the bolt stuck in your throat, “You won’t be left to rust here anymore, starlight.”

Your insides melt, touched by their generosity.

Below, at your feet, the dark blue and silver automaton begins to unscrew the bolts holding your feet down. Rust scrapes away and a harsh squeak of metal echoes. You grunt, jostled but, strangely, you hold to hope like a feathered, tiny thing in your hands, hoping to watch it fly again. 

“We can fix your voice box,” the lunar one speaks in a slight rasp you find endearing. His gaze remains focused on setting you free. “We have a shop. We repair things sometimes.”

“That’s right,” the solar one chimes in, “We scavenge as well. Don’t worry, we’ve repaired a few automatons or two. You can trust us.”

When he pries the bolt from your neck, you can dip your head in acknowledgment. A strange sensation burns through your wires, heating you from the inside out. Emotion. You wish you could ask for their names.

“You look very delicate.” The one at your feet finally frees one of your porcelain slippers with a slow, cautious tug. “We’ll be gentle.”

He tilts his head upwards and flashes a grin. You find yourself warming in the face. Is he being a tease or does he not know how he sounds? By the mischievous glint in your eyes, you fear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You try to pry your lips apart to find the right words, but all that leaves you is “Enjoy lots of fun! For a small price, of course!”

The automaton of yellow and gray hues glances briefly at you, tilting his heading in confusion while he begins to loosen the bolt stabbed into your right elbow. Holding his gaze, you speak with your eyes, almost pleading.

What are your names?

A spark of understanding answers in his pale optics, and he gasps.

“Moon, where are our manners? I’m so sorry, starlight! My name is Sun, and this is Moon.”

You dip your head again, bobbing up and down in excitement. You know their names. You haven’t learned anything new about anyone in so long…

When they free you from the ring toss game, you can hardly believe how the muddy path now leads you to the outside of the circus as Sun holds you gently in his grasp, how their strides are sure-footed and smooth, and how they look at you with concern.  

You vow silently to speak their names the moment your voice is free too.

*

You haven’t seen anything outside of the carnival in so long, you’ve almost forgotten the sight of dark, shiny paved streets and the lone lamp posts that light the way. Gray and dreary buildings line the streets. One, however, is cheerfully plastered in wooden stars painted bright yellow, and the door is a soft, sky blue with white fluffy clouds along the very top. 

Sun and Moon take turns carrying you. Their hands are careful, cradling you close against their cloak and shawl while murmuring that it’s alright. You’re safe. They’ll get you fixed up in no time. Moon cradles you in his arms now as Sun unlocks the door, and holds it open so you can be carried over the threshold. 

For an odd reason, it triggers your faceplate to heat up more than the colored rouge on the porcelain should allow.

Through the door, the interior of the workshop is set with tools ranging from smallest to biggest, shelves containing boxes marked, and small containers with different, shiny nuts and bolts. There are even some small containers with shiny, bronze gears. You haven’t seen a spotless floor in so long. There were always leaves and mud staining the path serpentining through the carnival. 

A table, coppery under a work lamp, awaits. 

“I’m setting you here,” Moon murmurs close to your audio processor before he lays you softly down with a gentle click of your frame against the metal. 

“I worry about how long you were left there.” Sun loses the shawl and locates a brown leather apron. Tools line the pockets as he swiftly ties it behind his back. His eyes are creased though he still smiles reassuringly. “By the amount of rust, I would guess years. For your sake, I hope I’m wrong.”

The answer is on the tip of your tongue. What comes out instead is a showy voice declaring “Whoever can ring three bottles wins the ultimate prize!” 

A whirl in your servos practically screams out your embarrassment. You lower your gaze. The stiffness in your joints is almost as unbearable as the voice lines the circus owner forced upon you. 

“Shush,” Moon says, his cloak falling away as he snags an apron similar to Sun’s off of a hook. “Wait for a moment, pretty thing, then you may have your words back.”

“That’s right,” Sun nods and shifts to stand close beside you. He grows still for a moment, his bright disposition falling behind a somber cloud. “We’re very lucky to have found you.”

You smile—not the forced, showy smile that has been plastered on your face while you lie in the ruins, but a true smile for the ones who rescued you.

Moon moves to the other side of the table. His hands, now gloved in black leather, hesitate. 

“We will open you up now.” The automaton turns flush along the spindle support of his neck. “Is that alright? It’s the only way we can fix your voice box.”

Sun leans forward, his smile still cheery while he modestly averts his eyes, “As well any other damage done from being exposed and negligent for… however long you were out there.” 

You never thought the solar automaton could be shy, and yet. 

You nod your head as it rests on the table. You feel safe, so much more so than when you were bolted in place. The circus owner did not ask you what you wanted then.

Moon and Sun move in tandem. It’s strange and beautiful, how effortlessly they weave their fingers to begin work. Sun unlocks your chassis and Moon gently lifts it open. You throw your gaze to the ceiling. You don’t want to know. You know they will find it horrible and awful, but you don’t want to see it and have it seared into your mind.

“You’re beautiful,” Moon utters.

You blink, as breathless as a machine can become.

“Your clockwork—is very beautiful,” a slight stumble from his raspy voice seals your fate. You say nothing. You press your lips together and wonder if you might overheat right here and now. 

“You are pretty,” Sun continues effortlessly, though there’s a slight trill to his voice that may give away his nervousness or bashfulness, you can’t decide. “Clockwork automatons are rare.”

The circus owner made mention of that.

You close your eyes as Sun and Moon narrate their every movement. Hands held down by your sides, you only occasionally shift or softly buzz as they clean and fix your voice box nestled within the bottom of your throat. They are so gentle. You never knew hands could be so kind, even if they are rummaging through your inner workings. 

Could they possibly let you stay?

The absurd thought enters your processor and you almost immediately shove it into a box and bury it deep into cold, black soil. 

“You’re doing so good.” Sun grins as he looks down into your chassis. “There. That should do it. Moon?”

“I’m done.”

Slowly, carefully, as if finishing a sacred rite, the two close up your chassis and tighten it back into place. You haven’t opened your eyes yet. A part of you wonders if you’ll only look out into the ruins of the circus again, and find this was all one blissful moment of a daydream. 

“Can you say something, starlight?” Sun’s voice washes over you.

“It’s alright if you’re not ready,” Moon answers in a low sound of comfort.

It falls past your lips before you realize you are not ready, but you so terribly want to speak anyway.

“Thank you.” Your eyes flash open, and you gape—the echo. Your soft, demure tones no longer strained into shouting and calling attention. 

It’s you.

Your hand touches your lips, and a sound between a laugh and a sob emerges from your voice box. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” You look between the two of them, overwhelmed. With the overhead lamp now touching their features as they sit back, grinning, you get to admire their handsome features. 

You two are very striking.

“Oh, my,” Sun chuckles, bleeding red in the cheeks, “Thank you!”

“You’re very sweet,” Moon murmurs, touching his nightcap with a slight bashfulness.

And you realize you spoke your thoughts out loud. You called them striking.

“Oh,” you begin to burn.

“It’s alright,” Moon says swiftly, interrupting your apology. “We would like to know what your plans are after this. Now that you’re free.”

“Free,” you whisper back. You clutch at your chest, over your clockwork heart, and marvel. “I…”

You have your voice back. Use it.

“I—if I may be so bold, may I ask to stay with you both? I won’t be a burden. I won’t stay longer than you will allow, and I—”

Sun sighs, dramatic and cheerful, as he finds your hand to hold it. 

“I thought you would never ask, starlight!”

Moon’s hand slips under your anxious fingers. His nod echoes his solar counterpart’s enthusiasm. You turn your head between both of them, your lips parting in awe.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Sun. Moon. Thank you.”

[fulcrum-art-fox]

Kinda obsessed with the scene just before Azi and Ursula hit the Demeter and they pause to appraise the situation and Azi wordlessly rubs her wrists, still sore with cuts and rope burn. The people who did that to her, tied her up and left her to die, are ahead. She’ll undoubtedly be facing them. She wants to face them; face Kris. But she’s just been through something awful at their hands and she’s traumatised. And Ursula sees her rubbing her wrists and immediately gets the knife out to give to her. Ursula saw Azi at the most helpless and vulnerable she’d ever felt. She rescued her, and now she sees Azi’s pain and intuitively extrapolates how she must be feeling preparing to face them again, and her response is to give her a tool, and in doing so she gives her back some power, some agency, some control. It deprives Ursula herself of that tool, but Azi clearly needed the reassurance, so Ursula gives it to her. It’s the exact opposite and the perfect antidote to everything Kris stood for. Where Kris was controlling, impressing upon others her own agenda with little care for their personal needs, Ursula here demonstrates observation of others emotional needs and does her best to meet them. She demonstrates compassion and care, support of others, and selflessness. These are the qualities that define a good leader. It’s such a simple gesture and such a small moment, but it’s this scene that cements why Ursula is the leader that the Demeter survivors need

[quizzical-is]

This show is rotating in my mind eternally it's just so good and like everything I love about scifi.

[littleplantfreak]

'When', not 'if'

("I'm not a romantic" I cry and scream before dropping the most sickening thing i've written to date. Blame @stunie because i did tell her i would write the most ume thing ever and maybe this is it. The title in my docs for it is 'Fucking disgusting' but i figured i better not title it that here because I'd be seeing it in my notifs lmaoo)

SFW/no cw unless you hate fluff

When you wake up from your nap, one of your slippers is gone, and there's a blanket on you that wasn't there prior. Looking at the clock, it's been about an hour since everyone had left your apartment once your birthday party ended. The day as a whole had been chaotic, your boyfriend shoving you out the door with a note to go see Kotoha.

The note took you farther than that, though, as it seemed Umemiya created a whole scavenger hunt for your birthday that had you running into all of your friends, having dessert at your favorite cafe, and eventually ending up at your shared apartment to find that all that time spent around town was a distraction so that he could set up the space for your party. After it had ended, you were banished to the couch because princesses aren't allowed to help clean up their own birthday parties, which had you huffing and falling face down into the chicken shaped pillow affectionately called Mr.Clucky.

It was a product of your boyfriend's endless cycle of hobbies when he took up sewing. A little lopsided and overfilled with stuffing, you complained to and into Mr.Clucky with your face pressed into him. Apparently, he was soft enough to fall asleep on because before you knew it, you had been drooling on him the entire hour. Prying yourself off the couch took more effort than was almost worth it before your eyes fell on the reason you were so tired to begin with.

Hajime smiles and hums looking at your bleary eyes. "Good morning sunshine, I was just about to take you to bed," he says, folding a dish towel over a chair. You toss off the blanket and grab on the slipper that fell under the living room table before padding up to him. Dipping your hands under both of his arms to lock them together behind him, now your face is in his chest instead of the chicken, which is entirely preferred.

"Don't wanna go to bed just yet," you muffle, sinking even deeper into him when both of his arms wrap around you in support. He smells like dish soap and birthday cake, and you turn your head to hear the heartbeat in his chest.

"What do you wanna do lovey? You know I'd give you the world if you asked," you can hear the rumble of his voice in his chest with your pressed ear. He's cheesy, but half asleep, you feel just as much, if not cheesier.

"I have the world if I have you, they're one in the same. So just you is more than fine." Your eyes are closed, but you feel him shiver a little. "I wanna dance with you, though," you say, voice still soft and kinda raspy from sleep.

"Dunno if I can top what you just said even when I propose," he chokes out a laugh, or at least you think it's one. He shifts his hold a bit and starts leading you both in a lazy sway that starts near the toaster and ends next to the potted plant at the back door before starting over.

"When? Not if?" You tease him, a hand going to scratch the nape of his neck lightly.

"I'll never meet another you, so I'm pretty set on When."

"I'll say yes." Because you will. You can't imagine a life where you wouldn't.

"And I'll still cry when you do." You can tell he's crying now because it comes out shaky and his hold tightens a bit, before you lean back, stopping your impromptu waltz. Both of your hands come up to cup his face and look at his teary grey eyes before cooing at him.

"You big baby! Save those tears for When please. You'll be congested and sniffley all night if you don't stop." You start cleaning off his face with your sleeve, but he stops one of your hands and starts peppering your palm and wrist with small kisses. "I think I'm ready for bed now. Princess's orders," you say, dragging him towards your bedroom. You'll have to figure out tomorrow just how soon When is going to be, but for now you can hear the slow thumps of Hajime's steps as he follows behind you, squeezing your connected hand. It's not pressing in the least, you think, because it feels like there will be plenty of tomorrows too.

-----

When you wake up in the morning, it takes you an hour to realize Hajime had put the ring on your finger while you were asleep.

It takes you five minutes to run through town in your pajamas, barefoot to find and full on tackle him in front of the place he was about to get your breakfast in.

And it takes about two minutes of unintelligible blubbering on both your parts before anyone understands what is going on.

No one timed it, but if they did, it would've taken less than ten minutes for the whole town to find out via texts, calls, and yells down the streets and through windows that you're engaged.

[kiiingsnake]

you (your mind), you (your body), you (the rot that’s growing inside you), and you (the corpse of your twin)

[susaken456]

Ok, this might not make any sense but... I adore how Scavengers Reign revolves about adapting. Not in an evolutive sense, but in an "abstract" way, related to how they act regarding Vesta and its alienness.

Levi and Ursula are clearly the ones that keep an open mind, they care to stop and smell the flowers, connecting with Vesta by respecting its ecosystems. It's because of their willingness to understand the planet that they can cope with it so easily.

Azi and Sam know how to use Vesta's biodiversity to their advantage but they antagonise them at the same time, Sam especially. I find interesting how in both stories, they end up reconciling with Vesta.

Azi starts off treating Levi like a robot. When Levi starts showing signs of conciousness, she's wary. And when she eventually accepts that her companion is fully sentient, she embraces it. Later on, if we interpret Levi being "reborn" as an extension of the Vesta, Azi pretty literally embraces them.

Sam, on the other hand, vocally hates the planet (though I believe this may be due to casualty, given the disastrous reason they are there in the first place) and wants to get to the Demeter as fast as he and Ursula can. His aggressive attitude towards the flora and fauna is answered with, well, agression. He ends up facing more deadly sitations than others as a result. But in episode 10, when he sees the Demeter and is sure Ursula can get to it safely, he let's go. He no longer needs to fixate on the future, and so relaxes. He lays down and watches in silence as a tiny spider-like creature goes about around him. He admires Vesta's nature for what might be the first time, and earns himself a small sweet moment in a bitter end.

I have so many other thoughts about this, but this is becoming too long. I love overanalysing this series so much

[kelocitta]

i saw your post on how you were thinking about handling the Whole Artificer Thing and i say, let em be a villain! i think it would be fun

I don't have any qualms about Artificer being cruel or whatever; I just don't think that when working them into an anthro doing a 1-to-1 transfer of their behaviors and/or making them just flat out racist/genocidal is an interesting or accurate way to characterize them. (and I just have. Negative interest in working with that type of character) People can do whatever they want but ultimately I just find the idea that anything other making them aggressively genocidal is like, woobifying them, tiring.

Artificer is obviously not good in the context of the game. But the problem and focus of their actions is the scale and spiritual aspect of it, not the actions themselves. Other slugcats are perfectly capable of killing scavengers, most players likely will and many who don't are only held back by the consequences. Scavengers are also warriors, and Artificer's whole campaign is basically set up on the fact that scavengers are defensive and very much follow a 'shoot first' method of self preservation.

So why does Artificer have always be the one thats uniquely villainous in behavior (now with significantly more moral weight behind it than they had as an animal) when the other slugcats, and even the scavengers, get properly 'civilized' when people make them anthros? I just don't think its an interesting way to utilize them, and I won't fault people who do- but like- I feel like if Artificer is going to be Like That when they can walk and talk and do taxes or whatever than at bare minimum the other slugcats and scavengers' relationship with violence/murder/hunting should be touched on.

I'm not making Artificer a good person. I don't want them to be a good person, because I think the fact they are so bad that they have problems on a spiritual level to be the interesting part. Technically, the Artificer I do for anthro stuff has already done their 'Scav King' and found their 'closure'. They set out to do something awful and did it, they got their ending. So now theyre just old and tired and mean and miserable because getting what you want isnt a solution.

[stayatsam]

"Varric used to be mean and a centrist" the first time we meet Varric is roughly 20 years prior to Veilguard, and the Varric in Inquisition, who we see become a responsible father figure to Cole, is from 10 years prior to Veilguard

i think its' actually very fortunate that we got to see Varric grow from being a carefree, kind of jerky guy running a spy network in Kirkwall to someone who learns that he has the power to change the world for the better to make a safer place for him and his friends to live in, and also that he feels good when he knows he can be responsible for other people

just a thought idk. i see so many complaints about missing DA2 Varric as though he didnt see Kirkwall's destruction firsthand. he's really shaken by it in Inqusition dialogue and banter, he developed as a character. this isn't a new sudden change brought on by veilguard

[tiny-tardis]

Scavenger Hunt Item #30

Well, it looks more like a well than a tower, but still, as indicated in scavenger hunt #30, I killed some time and tidied up my desk.. sorting out my gel and fountain pens..

(and realizing that I actually have about 12 different pens with different tones of purple ink and five with green ink...and also that there are only two regular blue pens💀)

[trebuchet151]

This is jumping the queue bc some really cool people reblogged my last post of Corey and they escaped containment.

Updated sidestep design perpetual WIP

Sidestep days vs retribution. They're slowly reacquiring their self expression. Next book will probably be the full return of the scene/punk look

Bonus Corey sans most of their clothing to show off their tattoos under the cut. CW for healed SH scars

Yes that is Ortega's bedroom yes I half assed it. I drew this background in my car at work when it was like 110 degrees idgaf

[hoiststowline]

haunt

spinister x f!reader

Typically, unless necessary, he finds himself intervening in situations that he sees can be played out without his assistance. It's not laziness, lest he tells himself, but he's also not a mother and most certainly not a judge. Krok's the leader, he makes the tough decisions and has no time to deal with the shouting and-

Your door is open, stopping just shy of the entrance as many objects he doesn't know the name of bounce around the room. A shoe even flies out into the hallway, tossed by your hands as you scrounge around the room for something. You've gotten him intrigued in the least, taking a step forward and over the sneaker, now standing in your doorway.

"Everything okay-?" The question barely leaves him before a loud clang can be heard, not realizing you were underneath your bed, yanking things out and throwing them in all directions. At the sound of his voice, startled, the back of your head smacks the bed frame, loudly. Krok knows that hurts, so he masks his expression as best he can. 

"Ow..." He watches you slide out from under the mattress, an annoyed but upset pout to your lips. If he knew any better, you were distraught looking for something you could not find. "Have you seen my book?" 

The book in reference he knows quite well, the one Misfire teases is a diary, and the same that you have to find a new hiding spot for hourly because of the damn mechs that can't keep their servos to themselves. This isn't the first time it's gone missing, but it's the first instance where he's seen you near tears. "I haven't, no. I'm sure Misfire has it, y/n, I'll go get it from him."

"He doesn't, and neither does Crankcase or Fulcrum. It has to be in here then, but where, I don't-!" He observes as one of your palms comes to your chest as if to quell your heartbeat. "It's in here somewhere."

"What about Spinister?" It's the only member of the crew you have left to mention, and he thinks you know he has nothing to do with the stolen goods. Krok only knows it by its cover, the black marker doodles that litter the front, and how you always seem to have your nose in it during downtime. "You haven't asked him?" 

You swallow thickly, and to this, Krok finally laces the pieces together. "Ah. You don't know if he has it, but you're praying he doesn't."

"I'm so stupid to think I could keep a journal on a ship with teenagers at best." You groan, hand running the length of your face. It wasn't a diary, it had started as a daily log of sorts, something to keep your mind busy when you had some time to yourself. Over time, it had swayed into more of a sketchbook, little annotations littering the borders. There weren't obvious depictions of your in-house romance, or lack thereof, but one could draw a massive conclusion based on the hearts and smiley faces that cover page after page. 

"Yeah, that's kinda on you." He agrees, taking in the mess you've created in such a small space. "Look, you keep searching in here, and I'll go find Spinister. If I come back with the book, then you gotta figure your scrap out."

"Deal." You warble, shoulders drooping in defeat. At this, he backs out of the room, taking the hallway down to the central command, and then hanging a left towards Spinister's quarters. 

"Spinister can't even read Cybertronian, dude. You're fine," Misfire had said, shrugging his shoulder in indifference. "If he can read English before he can count to ten, I'll buy you seventeen journals."

While that was not reassuring in the slightest, your face comes to sit in your hands, sitting cross-legged on your bed. Maybe it was thrown out of an airlock, spinning in deep space and torched to nothing. You'd rather that than have to deal with your feelings prematurely. 

To Krok's surprise, Spinister was in his room, but fiddling with his gun and in his immediate survey, did not have your journal. The large mech blinks at him expectingly, as if beckoning him to state the reason for his visit. 

"Nothing." He lies, shuffling his weight from pede to pede in the entrance. "y/n lost an item of hers, I just wanted to ask if you had seen it perchance, but clearly you've been busy with this." 

"What is she missing?" It piques his interest, that's for certain, and Krok can't pinpoint if it's when he says your name, or that you had misplaced an object that remains unnamed. 

"Don't worry about it." Why he's instigating this further, he doesn't know, but he's decided to play matchmaker today. "I'll let her know you've been in your berthroom all cycle." 

At this, the marksman tosses his weapon on his desk, standing abruptly. "I'll go." Is all he says, and when Krok goes to ask where, he's already shouldering past him and heading down the hall toward your room. 

Now rummaging through your closet, you push aside fistfuls of clothing in the hopes it got tangled in there somewhere. Krok must've left your door open because upon hearing heavy footfalls, you jump back and stick your head towards the hall, optimistic that he had found it-

What you weren't expecting was Spinister to be standing there, his shadow bathing the room as his red optics scan the area, only stopping when they land on you, sitting on the floor. "Krok said you lost something." Is all he says, tilting his head to the side when he can't process the look on your face. 

"Yeah." You sniffle softly, leaning back on your hands as you realize this is the end, the damn thing had you entirely stumped. "I think I'm about to give up."

"Would you like help?" Your brow raises, moderately amused that he'd help look for something he has no idea what it is. 

"That's okay, thanks anyways. If you don't have it, and neither does anyone else, that means it's doomed to wherever it ended up." Relief washes over you in waves, pleased to find that Spinister did not have it, but it did mean that it was somewhere on this god-forsaken ship.

"Your room is a mess." He remarks, unsure of the last time he was in the space. "Did you do this?" 

"I did, trying to find my book." Spinister takes a hesitant step inside, and then another, eventually coming just shy of your feet before carefully lowering himself to the ground. "I'll clean it later. Maybe while I'm cleaning, I'll find it."

"I hope so." Once in a sitting position, he's much less intimidating, at least he anticipates. "I lose things all the time. Can't say I have great success in finding them, but I understand the feeling," 

Your smile makes him physically melt, and the first few times his processor couldn't properly translate the reason or purpose of the action. Now, he looks for it, waits for it, and every time it has the same never-ending reaction. "Well, next time, let me know. I'll help you look for whatever it is you've misplaced." 

"You-" At the mention of your lost book, Spinister knows exactly what you're referencing. Though typically most information leaves him at a certain point, he has that journal committed to memory, only because he's spent so much time staring at you across the room whilst you write within it. It's the only time he can do it without getting caught, or have others rag on him for it. 

Just out of the corner of his optic, something blue catches his eye, the edge sticking out from underneath your nightstand. "Found it." He announces, digit pointing towards it, and he watches with gratification as your eyes alight, gasping.

You jump to your feet, scrambling over to the side table to look beneath it, a squeal of happiness tumbling from your lips. "Spinister! You are a gem, thank you so much!"

"I'm not 'a gem', I'm Spinister," He drawls, eyeing you curiously. "But you're welcome."

"I know you're Spinister, Spinister." You laugh, opening your top drawer and stuffing the book inside, a hiding place that is overused but is remotely fine, for now. "But you saved me a lot of time and heartache. I owe you one." 

"Heartache?" Maybe you could have left that part out, but the words just tumbled out of your mouth naturally. "Is your heart in pain?" 

"No, no. I...a lot of my thoughts are in here, I guess is a good way of putting it. Stuff I'm not quite ready to share." The toe of your sneaker runs across the metal of the floor, unconfident in how to proceed. "It's the only thing that won't judge or criticize me."

"I wouldn't. Or won't. I know Misfire would, and probably Fulcrum." Spinister decides he likes your room, it's uniquely you, and he thinks the image of you standing within it is otherworldly, just by your presence. "But I won't."

"I appreciate that, thank you." You're smiling so hard your cheeks begin to hurt, enjoying the conversation even if it's coming rapidly to a conclusion. "I may have to take you up on that, someday."

Krok thinks you're crazy, having feelings for a mech who forgets what he's saying in the middle of a sentence, but he also knows that Spinister has the gentlest spark out of any of them. He's deadly, but none of that seems to matter to you, heavily impressed by his marksmanship and his surgical expertise. There are plenty of humans and mechs out there who'd be vying for your attention, and yet? Your heart was easily stolen by Spinister, and no one can figure out whether to commend and support you for it or try and break it to you in the gentlest way possible that it may be a poor choice. 

Spinister can't figure out what he did thirty seconds ago, how on Earth was he ever going to realize he was in love with you as well?

"You can, anytime," Spinister affirms, nodding his helm once. "I was cleaning my blaster. Wanna come?" 

There was little you could deny him, and he had no idea about any of it. "Yeah. I do, Spin. I would love that." 

[ghostthostt]

lethal company oc :3

his name is foxtrot…teehee

[glitzybutt]

everyone's already saying how great it is, but specifically scavenger's reign does an incredible job of showing, not telling, which is a huge fucking flex because it's a show about people being in a very harsh, alien environment. every episode i'm continually impressed by many things, but especially this.

[angelsaxis]

I can't stop thinking about Sam and Ursulas relationship to the planet and to nature, and how Ursula was so connected to and in tune with a lot of it in the beginning because she didn't see nature as something to be pushed past or ignored or fought through. She waited and she watched and she listened and it solved their problems for the most part. And Sam was the total opposite, and he was the one who KEPT getting bit or infected or harmed by something. And yes Ursula was in danger as well, but I think it says a lot that Sam succumbed to a parasite.

[random-kido]

Weird vampiric cannibal guy having a little snack with assistance from husband who may also be a weird vampiric cannibal guy

Spouse that’s a chronic worrier 🤝 spouse willing to get mauled

making sure they’re each ok and assure one another that no permanent damage has been done after a bite session